


a boy's tribute

by tselinoyarsk (tselina)



Category: Songbirds of Valnon - L. S. Baird
Genre: Gen, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 22:20:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tselina/pseuds/tselinoyarsk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young Dmitri seeks out the sounds of weeping in a quiet Temple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a boy's tribute

**Author's Note:**

> this contains slight spoilers for [Evensong's Heir](http://www.amazon.com/Evensongs-Heir-Songbirds-Valnon-ebook/dp/B00CD7AW4M#_). it contains [extended canon](http://valnon.tumblr.com/post/47538623915) from the author's blog, as well.
> 
> this was burning on my fingers for a few weeks. i hope to make a comic of it soon!
> 
> feel free to follow me at thryse . tumblr . com!

Dmitri had never known what to do with the trinkets his mother pushed upon him other than to be a good boy and wear them obediently. They were all for Saint Lairke, for his honor and favor, but Dmitri wasn't sure why _he_ needed them. His mother was the one who was ill, after all. Dmitri was in fine health, and the boy would gladly share his constitution with his mother if he could. Yet Dmitri was also a practical boy, even at a young age, and knew that there was little he could do for his mother other than to obey her and to pray.

Prayer was not much on his mind the chilly spring morning that he accompanied his mother to the Temple. He was, instead, playing with a new necklace that his mother's physician had given him. It was a black feather, carved carefully out of jet, and apparently it had quite a story.

"This has been passed down in my family for generations," the doctor had said, his golden glasses hiding twinkling eyes. "It belonged to one of the very first Larks, as tribute." Dmitri wasn't sure that something so old would just be given away to a patient's child, but he'd been pleased at the responsibility for something precious. Clearly the doctor had recognized the boy's maturity, something he'd carefully cultivated ever since he could walk and talk. 

Today, however, it was hard to keep focused on being a model gentleman. More than once, Dmitri moved his hand from his side to twist in the chain, eyeing the corridor around the room where his mother was holding conference. He'd been waiting for what felt like forever, and more than once he lamented that it wasn't even a very interesting time of day. It was too soon for Noontide, and due to one of his mother's fits, they'd missed Dawning. The sounding vents brought only snatches of far-off conversations and impromptu sket music; it was not nearly enough to keep the interest of a six-year-old boy. 

It was then that Dmitri heard weeping. It was soft at first, barely audible through the wind and the other noises, but Dmitri always had good ears. He clasped his hand around the jet feather and, without thinking, began to walk towards the sound. His mother's pained tears were fresh in his mind, and some small part of him would not permit even a stranger to be alone with their suffering.

Dmitri found the source in a carefully carved marble alcove, hidden beyond a cluster of statues. It was a young man, probably no more than seventeen at most, dressed all in the darkest blues and blacks. He was bowed at his waist where he sat, hands over his mouth as he barely held back a sob. With a start, he realized that Dmitri was there with him, and he looked as if the boy had brandished a sword out of the ether.

"I'm sorry to bother you," Dmitri said, holding his small hands out in a gesture of peace. "I heard you crying."

"How…?" The young man's face showed elegant breeding, but right now it was puffy and scrubbed red, his short russet hair stuck to his face from a recent bath. He looked familiar, somehow, and Dmitri wondered if he was a young noble that he'd met at some distant party his father had thrown in the past.

"I think you aren't allowed in this part of the temple," Dmitri warned him gently, walking towards him and placing a hand on his knee, "but I'm here, too, so I won't tell."

The young man's face colored slightly at Dmitri's words; he looked both embarrassed and bewildered. "Not allowed?" he asked, and then, to Dmitri's surprise, he laughed. It didn't sound mocking-- it was almost relieved in how hearty it was-- but it made Dmitri frown all the same.

"I'm sorry," the nobleman said, wiping at his eyes. "I-- yes, this is a restricted area-- I'm sure we'll be fine."

"I don't see why that was funny," said Dmitri, a little prim at the young man's outburst, apology aside. "But it is good that you laughed."

"Yes," his companion said, sighing with exhaustion as he leaned back against the wall of the alcove. There was a mosaic behind him, one that his mother had a recreation of in the house. It was a congregation of larks, all with their beaks open in song, spread upon a swirling metal gate. 

"Did you know," said Dmitri, summoning up as much friendliness as his normal solitary self could allow, "that I'm very sure that the Second Dove's Thrush did these mosaics. They're quite famous."

The nobleman smiled at him. He had long, beautiful features and his voice was soothing to hear, like the Lark's final notes at Dawning. "I think he did, too," he said in reply, "but you should be careful talking about the Second Dove in the Temple. The elderly might hear you."

"I am not afraid of ghosts, and old people should know better," boasted Dmitri, his hand going to his necklace regardless. "And he was still a _Dove_ , so we should respect him."

"Yes," murmured the young man, looking at his hands. Dmitri's words seemed to stir a memory, "Troubled as he was."

"You wouldn't like someone making up stories about your troubles, now would you." Dmitri patted the nobleman's knee, firm with his gentle reprimand. 

"Oh," chuckled the young man, "someone is already making up stories about me." His features hardened. "Someone just made one up last week that I hate."

"Oh?" Dmitri fidgeted. "What was it?"

"One of my… friends," said the nobleman, licking his dry lips, "told a lie to a great many important people. It was very good for me, but it was very bad for him. He's in a lot of trouble, and I'm…" He clenched his fists. Dmitri waited for him, patiently, trying to remember how his father comforted his mother during her worst bouts of depression. Listening was most important, he thought, and the young man clearly had been holding this in.

"He lied, and I can't do a thing about it. He sacrificed so much for me. If I protested, if I tried to tell the truth, it would ruin everything he did to keep me in my--" He stopped, as if he was about to say too much.

"It sounds like you need this," said Dmitri, fumbling with the chain around his neck, "more than I do."

"Oh?" The nobleman accepted the jet feather, blinking back fresh tears to inspect his gift.

"It's very old Lark tribute," said Dmitri, proudly. He was sure that the doctor wouldn't mind him passing it on for a good cause. "It will help you make good decisions, so you should start wearing it immediately."

"Naime knows I need to make some better ones," muttered the nobleman, clenching the tribute to his chest.

"You could send it to the Lark and have him wear it, though you might not get it back," said Dmitri. "I don't know if it helps, but it might make you feel better."

"I'll-- think about that," the young man said, looking for all the world like he might laugh again. Dmitri wasn't sure what was so amusing, but he liked the smile he was seeing, and he smiled in return.

"Do think about it," he said, properly, before he heard the breach of a door opening in a far away corridor. "Oh," he said, his stomach sinking, "my mother's meeting is over."

"Is it?" The nobleman got up, dusting off his immaculate trousers. "Is she in the Portrait room?"

"The Portrait--" Dmitri frowned and allowed the young man to lead him out of the alcove. "Yes, I suppose. There is a very large portrait in there."

"Come, I'll show you the way back."

"Won't we be in trouble?" Dmitri went for the feather at his chest, but it was no longer his to hold.

"I can assure you," said the young man, with a bright smile, "that we will be just fine." He placed a warm hand on Dmitri's shoulder and lead him easily through the hallways to where his mother stood waiting.

-

The meeting with the weeping young nobleman had all been blotted from Dmitri's mind in the chaos of the weeks to follow. Not long after his mother's conference in the Portrait Room, Dmitri had been sent to the care of the Temple, and there had been a fair share of his own tears shed. Four years later, he had proved himself in the trials, and had been cut as a Songbird of Valnon. It was only to his regret that his mother had not lived to hear that her final tribute had transformed into something so sublimely holy. 

Blossomnight was upon them, now, and Dmitri had not slept the entire night up to his debut. Dawning would come this morning with him as the new avatar of Saint Lairke to sing up the sun. Instead of excitement, however, he felt only the numbness of stage fright and the lingering worry at the height of the dais. Kestrel, his predecessor in Saint Lairke's line, had been helping him for weeks to put on the armor and paint his eyes properly, but now it was time for the rest of the world to look upon him. 

"Before you ask," said Kestrel, returning from the solar, "your kohl looks perfect and so does your rouge."

Dmitri scowled slightly, unhappy at being pre-empted with his worry. Beyond the onyx beads of his door, he heard the other Songbirds finish their ablutions. Their presence was almost more nervewracking: he didn't get along with either Willim or Ellis and he secretly feared their critical ears.

"You're going to be fine, Your Grace," said Kestrel, as if he could sense Dmitri's mounting anxiety.

"It's so strange to hear you call me that," murmured Dmitri, huddling on his vanity chair. Though Blossomnight marked the return of spring, it was still chill, and aside from his drape, Dmitri was wearing very little in the way of clothing. 

"You'll get used to it," Kestrel said. "And now, if Your Grace could stand up?" He smiled a little mischievously. "Let's have one final look at you while the others dress."

Dmitri did as he was told, taking in a great breath, feeling his lungs ache with promise.

"Hmm," is all Kestrel said after a lingering silence, putting one hand to his hip, the other tapping his mouth.

"Hmm?" Dmitri looked down at himself, as nervous as he had ever felt in his life, adjusting the chains of jewels that decorated his navel.

"You look good," Kestrel said, lips pursed, "but something is… missing."

" _Missing?_ " There was a note that neared despair in Dmitri's voice. Kestrel laughed to dispel the mood, moving to pull something from under his sapphire sleeves.

"It's not common for a Songbird to wear tribute on their first night," said Kestrel, "But I've spoken to Hawk, and he said he'll make an exception for this."

Without another word, Kestrel looped a simple chain around Dmitri's neck. A carved black feather clattered under the black sapphire of Saint Lairke's armor, glinting in the lamplight. Dmitri stared at it, rouged mouth gaping open, as the memories flooded back unbidden. 

"It was you," murmured Dmitri, touching the feather with a trembling hand. "You were the noble's son I met that day."

"I didn't have the heart to tell you," said Kestrel, carefully fixing simple combs in Dmitri's fine hair as they spoke. "You were speaking to me as if I were a person, after weeks of being treated like damaged wares. It was a godsend."

Dmitri's hands closed around the feather. It was much smaller than he remembered it. "I'm glad I was comforting," he said, though he had truly been at a loss for useful words. 

Kestrel touched the crown of Dmitri's head, smiling warmly at his young heir. He looked so pleased that Dmitri could see it bursting at Kestrel's seams, and it began to wash away his fear. "Surprisingly enough, you were, though you were quite bossy."

"I thought you were an errant nobleman, I had to say something," said Dmitri, though he found himself smiling at the memory. "Though I can't believe I didn't recognize you when I met you next. It wasn't very long after that I came to the Temple."

"Youth has a way of blurring memories like dreams," Kestrel said kindly. "You had enough to worry about then, too. You were only six. Though, it's nice to be remembered now."

"Of course," said Dmitri, and he let his hands go loose at his sides. "… Thank you."

"Thank _you_ ," Kestrel said, curling his hands over the beads of the Lark's door. "Meeting you helped me find my faith again."

"Your faith?" 

"That prayer can bring you blessings when you least expect them," finished the former Lark, bowing deeply at his waist. "Now, Your Grace. After you."

Dmitri gave him a fleeting smile, then schooled his face into a mask of saintly perfection. As he strode to the dais, he vowed to still be like the boy he'd been, willing to give comfort to strangers. Dmitri touched the feather once more, remember his mother's trinkets and his mother's faith, and let his voice rise to her in Heaven as he became at last the Lark of Valnon.


End file.
